by Iris Gower
‘Go on then!’ Mr Bravage shouted. ‘Let’s see the lady ghost, find out if she’s alive and kicking.’
Reluctantly, I opened Beatrice’s door, worried about invading her privacy, but there was no one in the room – it was silent and empty. Relieved, I stepped back and let the other people in, led by Mr Bravage.
‘I feel a distinct chill in here.’ Mr Bravage spoke in hushed tones and looked around, evidently seeking an open window or two.
‘I do feel a presence,’ the colonel chimed in, his pipe suddenly smouldering into extinction as if it had been blown out by a ghostly breath. He took it out of his mouth and looked at it in disbelief. ‘It’s never done that before.’ He sniffed. ‘This room hasn’t been occupied by anyone alive, not for a very long time. You can smell the scent of decay.’
That was going a bit far, but I closed my lips firmly. Dear Beatrice used an ancient violet perfume that did smell a bit musty. I wondered where she’d gone, but Beatrice knew every nook and cranny of the creaking old house. She was probably keeping out of the way until the nosy, camera-laden guests had gone.
We all returned to the dining room. The soup had gone cold, and Mrs Ward and Rosie, dressed in maid uniforms now – a new idea of mine – removed the plates. Mrs Ward had sniffed at the notion of a starched white apron instead of her wraparound floral pinny, but when I’d promised her a little bonus she had complied with my craven request for her to fit in with the mood of the night.
‘Perhaps Your Ladyship should bring in a butler as well?’ Her acid remark had left little circles running round in my head. I knew she had been joking, but would my budget stretch to a butler? It would be an added authentic touch!
The meal comprised of roast lamb, cooked and seasoned beautifully by Mrs Ward, with devilled slices of lamb’s liver, mint, baby roast potatoes and several dishes of vegetables. Not from the garden, alas, but from a market gardener who’d sold me them fresh at a premium price. We had dishes of steaming suet pudding and custard after the main course.
My guests ate well – and they paid well for the privilege.
Tonight, the conversation was noisy and elated; the sounds and the noises and the ghostly scents of my dear, conspiring old house pleased the ghost hunters, as did the timely appearance of Beatrice – dressed, as always, as if she’d stepped out of a picture book of the past century.
‘My dear Miss Evans.’ The colonel swept off his glasses. ‘I think your house is one that is truly possessed by spirits of the past. So many of these so called “haunted” houses are nothing but fakes, fooling gullible tourists into a cheap thrill, but this house, Aberglasney, is the real thing, and I will be a guest any time you have your weekend conferences.’ He leaned over me, wiping the custard from his mouth with a pristine napkin. It was lucky Mrs Ward could still persuade the few Americans remaining in the huts to help her work the laundry.
‘You know, Miss Evans, you should put out leaflets, advertise in the newspapers more. You would have waiting lists, you would need ghost weekends more frequently, and then you could repair more of the rooms. My dear young lady, you have a gold mine here. Not looking for a partner, are you, by any chance?’
I shook my head as if in regret. ‘I like it as it is, Colonel. My regulars have become friends to me. What I hope to do is restore as many rooms as possible as bedrooms, and then the weekends might be able to accommodate a few more guests. What do you think?’
‘Ah, I know I speak to my own disadvantage here, but I think you should charge more for the weekends. The hospitality is very good. I personally feel so much at home that I could get up in the night and make myself a drink.’ He dabbed his moustache again. ‘I like the stone floors of the kitchen, the old wooden cupboards, the china cups hanging on hooks, the kettle singing on the hob. It is a lovely house, my dear, and you are so fortunate to own it.’
‘I know I am,’ I agreed.
After the meal, I suggested a ‘candlelit’ search of the house. ‘But be careful, don’t disturb anything, and please don’t be careless with the candles. We don’t want the house to be on fire, do we?’
I left the guests to their search of the house and grounds and helped Mrs Ward and Rosie to wash up the dishes. Mrs Ward took an enamel jug, filled it with boiling water from the kettle, and I watched as she sluiced the cutlery and then put it in the jug of steaming water. All except the bone-handled cheese knives.
‘Why do you leave the cheese knives out, Mrs Ward?’ I was silly enough to ask and was subjected to a lecture about bone and ivory handles coming apart and falling off and of silver blades needing gentle washing and cleaning.
I could see Rosie hovering wanting to talk to me, but what could I say to her? I couldn’t condone the operation she planned, and yet I could see her position was intolerable.
When Mrs Ward had left, shopping bag of leftover food on her arm, Rosie made a beeline for me. The guests were silently searching the upper floors, and now everything was cleared up, and the dining table laid for breakfast, there was nothing more for me to busy myself with. I sat down with Rosie, wondering what I could advise.
‘Please, Miss Riana, you will have to help me.’ She bit her full lip, and I could see she was at the end of her tether.
Suddenly, anger washed through me: anger at Tom for allowing his men such freedom, and anger at Pilot Jenkins for taking advantage of a young girl like Rosie. Granted, her reputation wasn’t spotless, but at least the man could have been careful. ‘I’ll see Tom in the morning.’ My voice carried conviction. ‘It is up to the Americans to sort out all this, not me or you, Rosie.’
Her young face was awash with gratitude. ‘Thank you, Miss Riana. Perhaps some hospital visit can be arranged and paid for, and then my troubles will be over.’
I didn’t reply. I was thinking about a new unborn infant, a real child who had a right to life. But then who was I to make such decisions? Tomorrow it would all be taken out of my hands. I was determined on that.
My guests departed the next day, full of a good breakfast and tales of ghosts and noises and ‘paranormal research’, having booked again for another weekend in a month’s time. I had planned on having them less frequently, but the events were so successful that I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to make more of the weekends and to make money enough to restore my house.
Later I walked down to the barracks, my heart in my mouth, ready to confront Tom. His smile when he saw me made my heart beat more quickly, and my resolve to be firm wavered slightly.
‘You look lovely and summery,’ he said, his eyes warm and admiring. It was a warm day, without the autumnal chill that had seemed to pervade the house and gardens over the weekend. It almost seemed that the house, the weather, and everything else was colluding to make my ‘ghost hunts’ a success.
I plucked up my courage. ‘Can we talk privately? There’s a serious matter I have to discuss with you.’
‘Please come into my office.’
Tom, I felt, already knew what the problem was. He poured me coffee from one of his electric contraptions brought from America, and we sat down at his desk, Tom facing me almost as if I was being interviewed. I felt suddenly as though he was an officer – a leader of men – not the friend I’d become fond of.
‘It’s about Pilot Officer Jenkins and Rosie Ward.’ I spoke softly, willing Tom to help me.
He didn’t.
‘They seem to have a very big problem,’ I said.
‘And, as far as I’m concerned, a very private problem.’ Tom spoke evenly.
‘Rosie has told me she is expecting a child.’ I knew I was being abrupt, but Tom’s attitude was making me angry. ‘I think you and your officers should be the ones to deal with it.’
‘Surely it’s more women’s work?’ He wasn’t being actually hostile – more obstructive.
‘I know he can’t make an honest woman of Rosie.’
‘If she was an honest woman she wouldn’t be in this position in the first place,’ Tom said, his tone one of r
eason.
‘Oh, so your man couldn’t have taken precautions?’ Anger was making my voice rise. ‘He’s married with children, I believe – something he failed to tell Rosie – and he didn’t even have the sense he was born with to take precautions!’ It embarrassed me to be so frank, but I was so angry with Tom’s cavalier attitude that I didn’t care about the blush that made my cheeks hot.
‘I tackled Jenkins about that, and his reply was: “You don’t take precautions with a girl you first met in the Red Lion Public House.”’
I was taken aback. I imagined Rosie had met Jenkins at the dance in my garden that night. Respectable young girls didn’t go into public bars. I got to my feet and picked up my lace gloves and my bag, searching for something to say in mitigation of Rosie. ‘Well,’ I said hotly, unable to think of a defence, ‘this is your problem not mine, sir. Please be sure to do something about it.’
‘I’ll call and discuss it with you tonight,’ Tom said coldly.
I walked out into the sunshine feeling foolish and at a disadvantage and also feeling something else – a sense of having lost something precious to me.
Rosie was waiting for me. ‘Did you see my Carl for me?’ She was as flushed as any young girl in love, and I tried to make things easier for her.
‘I saw Tom. He’s going to speak to your Carl Jenkins, see what can be done.’
‘Is Carl going to marry me then . . . or what?’
‘Leave it all until Tom has had a word. Try not to worry. The men will soon have some answer for us, I’m sure.’ I wasn’t sure at all.
Rosie looked relieved. She evidently believed in my powers of persuasion more than I did. ‘Thank you, Miss Riana. I’ve got to get out of this mess or my mother will kill me.’ It was a phrase I was tired of hearing.
‘Well, go and help your mother and act as though nothing’s happened. I’ll be seeing Tom later, and I’ll find out what’s going to happen. Try not to worry too much, Rosie, there’s a good girl.’
There was no sign of Tom that night, even though I waited for him impatiently. I wanted to get something settled for Rosie’s sake. I thought perhaps Jenkins could take Rosie to America, arrange a home for her there. Anything to get her away from the shame of bringing an illegitimate child into the world of a small Welsh village.
In the end, I cleared away the glasses of wine, Mrs Ward’s elderberry wine, and switched off the gas light. The mantles popped as they died, and again.
I went to bed disappointed and quivered below the blankets, trying not to cry. I’d wanted to see Tom more than I realized. I wanted to put things right with him to get back on the old warm footing.
I didn’t sleep very much. I kept hearing sounds . . . sobs, cries . . . Was it the wind that had whipped up dashing branches and stray bits of wet leaf against the windows, or were there really ghosts in my house, waiting outside my door ready to harm me? I turned my face into the pillow and closed my eyes. This was my house and I shouted, ‘Shut up!’ into the darkness, and suddenly, all was quiet.
THIRTEEN
The first of September soon arrived, and the art exhibition in the London gallery was a great success. I stood in the bright lights of the elegant room, a glass of champagne in my hand and a smile fixed to my face, and tried to look modest in the warmth of the praise that was heaped on my work. I knew I looked good, different, playing the part of an elegant artist. In one of the old wardrobes in my house I’d found a green silk pants suit, with panels over the trouser legs like an overskirt and a halter top that showed off my pale arms and shoulder length red-blonde hair to perfection.
With it I wore a colourful shawl in peacock greens and purples, so I looked like a picture of a wealthy woman from the nineteen twenties, not a product of the utility age of the war years.
‘My dear, you are as ravishing as your paintings.’ One of the art critics kissed my hand, and with his head bent he showed his glossy pink bald crown surrounded by grey hair. ‘I’m Simon Bleesdale, dear lady.’
He expected me to know of him, and of course I did – he was one of the most influential art critics in London. ‘How charming of you to say so.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic, but I found his flattery a bit overwhelming.
‘Not at all! You are very talented. The ghostliness of the lovely old mansion shines through the paintings. It was almost as if you were possessed when you worked on them.’
I realized, with a flush of pleasure, that he wasn’t flattering me at all. His praise was genuine. ‘Perhaps you would like to come to one of my ghost weekends?’ I suggested. ‘Good food, good company and ghosts, if we’re lucky. As my guest, of course, Mr Bleesdale,’ I added hastily.
‘Call me Simon, please, don’t stand on formality, and I would be delighted to come to your ghost weekend. The whole things appeals enormously. Now, dear lady, your public is waiting to meet you! Far be it from me to keep you from your admirers.’
I found myself smiling at, and shaking hands with, people I’d never met before – well-dressed ladies and men with black ties. I received so many compliments I was quite dizzy. And yet my heart was heavy. I wanted Tom to be at my side, Tom to share with me the moment when I stood before my audience with a glass of sparkling champagne in my hand and gave a small speech of thanks to all who’d come to the exhibition.
Mr Readings spoke next, urging customers to buy my work before it became too much in demand and while prices were relatively low. ‘Low’ was not a word I would have used, each painting was marked at an alarming amount, and yet amazingly they were beginning to sell – and quickly. I saw Mr Readings taking orders and bundles of notes, making records of each sale meticulously in his little notebook.
At last the art lovers departed, and Mr Readings removed his glasses and stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. ‘You are the new fashion, my dear, the new Pre-Raphaelite, but with a difference. Your figures are beautiful young things swathed in a deathly haze. Lovely white limbs like those of a ballet dancer, tiny feet not quite touching the ground.’ He lifted his glass to me. ‘I have found myself a genius. Even Mr Bleesdale bought several canvases, and he has commissioned more. What do you think of that, my dear Miss Evans?’
‘I’m delighted and amazed,’ I stuttered. And I truly was amazed. ‘I didn’t expect my work to be so popular.’
Of course, Mr Readings would take almost half the money in commission, he’d already made that quite clear, but I accepted that as fair. Mr Readings had launched me into the public, given me a showcase. He had taken a risk on me, and I didn’t begrudge him a penny of what he’d truly earned. I’d still receive a princely sum for my work, and I was already planning what I’d do to Aberglasney with it.
‘It’s very late, dear. You’d better stay in town,’ Mr Readings said. His concern, I suspected, was because of the money he could earn from my work, not for my personal safety. ‘There is a nice little guest house just along the road, owned by a lady friend of mine. I shall put you up there for the night.’
‘Very kind.’ I truly was grateful. I didn’t fancy the drive home through the dark lonely streets and lanes that led from London to Swansea.
The guest house was warm and comfortable, and Miss Treherne who owned it was obviously besotted by Mr Readings. I really looked at him for the first time. He was tall and quite handsome with grey wings of hair pointing the way to a silver beard. It was clear to me that he would also stay the night at Miss Treherne’s little guest house.
I couldn’t sleep at first – the house, I realized, was too quiet without the creaks and groans of old Aberglasney – but at last I drifted off: warm and comfortable and filled with cocoa and biscuits, not to mention the champagne.
Miss Treherne herself drove us back to the gallery where I’d left my old van. Her means of transport was an old-fashioned Ford car, but at least it meant I could see something of London itself. Some of the buildings were razed to the ground from the bombing, and yet the early morning cries of the street vendors were cheerful and clear, even in th
e fog from the smoking chimneys.
I drove back to Swansea at a leisurely pace, eager to get back to my home and yet enjoying the sun as I left the town and encountered the broad countryside. I tested the brakes of the van several times. I’d had enough strange experiences to be wary now, fearing someone was trying to hurt or even kill me. Why? It wasn’t for my wealth, that was sure. Before the exhibition I’d had little money, and I was still nowhere near rich.
Was it an effort to stop me finding out the truth about Aberglasney and the deaths of the young maids? That seemed the most likely reason, but then that meant that someone with the guilt of it all, and the knowledge of what really happened, was still in the vicinity of the big old house, the mansion that had become my home . . .
At last, my thoughts turned to Tom, and I felt warm and comforted. Tom would always protect me; he cared about me, and even though we saw things differently at the moment he was a good friend. More than friends, on my part, which I wouldn’t let my mind acknowledge. Our little disagreement would soon be over and done with. We were too close to allow other people’s problems to spoil what we had built up.
I remembered how we sat in the shade of the cloisters, the old stone arching above us as solid as the day when the cloisters had been built. What hands had worked on those stones, on the gardens, making a paradise of the private world that surrounded Aberglasney?
And then I thought of Tom’s warmth close to mine, his arm touching mine and his occasional kisses . . . they were friendly, but such kisses could quickly turn to passion. Or was I dreaming, wishing, wanting more than Tom had ever thought of offering?
I stopped to drink my bottled water and eat the small sandwiches Miss Treherne had prepared for me. This morning she’d had the glow of a woman who had slept in a lover’s arms, and I envied her.
